


A Progression of Realization

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 22:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16251389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: She always challenges him with seeking ample proof, but tonight, she needs hardly any. One touch, two; her stomach flutters. It’s enough.





	A Progression of Realization

She feels prepared when she knocks on the basement door. Perhaps a little nervous, but confident in her abilities.

There’s this look he gives her, when he’s showing her his slideshow about those kids in Oregon, the ones with the bumps on their backs, all from the same graduating class. In this mostly dark office, only the small light of the projector. There’s a hint of danger in his eyes. A challenge in their glint. She feels exposed, like he’s staring right into her soul, like he’s daring her to take him up on this adventure. It’s a look, she thinks, he’s only ever given this once, to her.

They return, with more questions than answers. Which frustrates and excites her, the prospect of finding these answers, with him. She lays awake in bed, replaying the last few days. Time moved fast, so fast, those lost minutes and endless rain. The days all ran together. She feels exhilarated.

She thinks of his sense of humor, not entirely appropriate, but relatively harmless; the little jokes he told to break the ice, to feel her out. To scare her away, perhaps, she thought. She remembers little details from Oregon, the color of their rented sedan, the buttons on his denim shirt that fit perfectly under his raincoat, how his voice cracked at his affirmation when she hypothesized that some forced summoned Theresa Nemman’s into the woods.

Something shifts inside her, recounting these memories. She feels something like potential.

—

It’s 1:00am and he had called about two hours earlier, waking her from a deep sleep. _There’s a case_ , he’d said. _We need to leave now_ , he’d said. She packs quickly, for all scenarios, all weather; she’s become quite adept at this particular skill these past few years. He brings her coffee as a peace offering when he picks her up.

They’re two hours in to the three hour drive, and he’s been attempting small talk in order to keep her awake. Which she isn’t particularly fond of because, in her mind, only insomniacs are awake at 1:00am on a Wednesday. Or now technically Thursday. He fits an occasional sunflower seed in between his teeth, the snap of the shell jolting her every once in a while. They’re on some highway in between towns, the moon their only source of light.

They’ve reached a lull in their conversation, so he turns to her to see if she’s fallen asleep. Her eyes are closed, though her breath hasn’t deepened; he’s struck by the shimmer coming from around her neck, her cross illuminated from the sliver of the moon that seeps through the windshield. She’s beautiful, always, but especially in profile.

It’s then that he sees the first of the stars begin to fall. He puts the car in park in the middle of the road, fairly certain there won’t be any other vehicles passing through. He calls her name as he unbuckles himself and runs over to the open the passenger door, tingling with excitement. She stirs, uncertainly, but then he is there, tugging at her sleeve and drawing her out into the open, too. He points to the sky and she comes to rest immediately next to him, their shoulders brushing. He looks like a kid on Christmas; her eyes are on him through most of the meteor shower.

She always challenges him with seeking ample proof, but tonight, she needs hardly any. One touch, two; her stomach flutters. It’s enough.

—

Sunday mornings now mean his apartment and accidental burnt toast. Because, as she’s pointed out many times, that’s what happens when he’s too busy exploring her teeth with his tongue to pay attention to the toaster. Though she has never stopped him. She can live with burnt toast.

On this particular Sunday, she wakes naked in a tangle of limbs and sheets, slips on his shirt from the night before, pads to his kitchen for tea. Last night, he had promised scrambled eggs to accompany their usual toast this morning. She sips from her mug, a UMD one that he bought specifically for her to keep at his place, and browses through the morning paper.

He emerges from his slumber about 15 minutes later, trailing kisses across the back of her neck as she reads, claiming that the bed got cold without her, how they should go back there now and warm up. She tilts her head and plays with his hair, nails making contact with scalp, while he attaches his lips to a soft spot just above her shoulder. The offer is tempting, but she is starving. He’s never cooked breakfast for her before, and he promised.

He cracks the first two eggs and pulls her up from the chair, twirls her around the kitchen. They’re right there, him in his pajama pants and her in nothing but his shirt. She feels light and giddy, following his lead as they dance the early morning away. He deposits her back in the chair after a passionate, languid kiss, and cracks a third egg. She can’t keep the smile from her face. For once, she feels like she can let go, of her fears that she will never fulfill any man’s life. Of the ghosts of past failed relationships. For the first time in a long time, she allows herself to picture forever.

—

He kisses her on the sidewalk three times in one afternoon: as they leave her apartment, outside the deli where they have lunch, when she lets him hold her hand as the fallen leaves crunch below their feet on the walk back. When they return, she tells him to cool down the PDA. _What if someone sees us_ , she says. _Who cares, everyone already assumes we’re together_ , he says.

They fight for four hours about the nature of their relationship, bouts of screams and silence. He slams the door when he leaves. She strips from the confinement of her clothes and seeks scalding hot water.

She comes out of the bathtub an hour later with her head clear, feeling pathetic. She pulls on her robe and picks up her phone, but then there is a knock on her door. She lets him in and their arms are around each other immediately, both apologizing profusely for their arrogance, their inability to see the other’s perspective.

That night, after they’ve made up, she props herself against the headboard and her pillows, reading her latest issue of JAMA. He wakes, not completely, but enough to scoot closer to her, wearing something of a puzzled expression, half-lidded eyes. But he softens when her face matches his.

 _Hey Scully_ , he says. _You’re my best friend_ , he says. He nuzzles his nose into her hip, cuddles her thigh. She’s now heard everything she needs to hear, knows everything she needs to know.

—

It’s been years, many years. It hasn’t been easy. Never easy. But it always lingers. In silence, in car rides to and from the ends of the earth, with the lights out in the comfort of four walls and a bed.

When they return to the Bureau, after many of those years, she’s surprised to find a picture of her on his desk, framed. It’s one he took of her at Christmas years ago, when things still appeared good, when truthfully they weren’t. In that moment they were, though. She picks up the frame and smooths her thumb along the wood, hears his footsteps as he emerges from the elevator, smiles when he stops in the doorway.

He runs his palm from hip to hip as he passes her on his way to the chair behind his desk, looks up at her with those bashful eyes that made her fall for him in the first place. This is what they mean, she thinks. All of those songs she once found cheesy and difficult to relate to. She understands it all when she’s with him.

This is what it feels like to be in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "You Are in Love" by Taylor Swift. Because I'm a closeted fan and her music is a big mood in the fall.


End file.
